


No Place Like Home

by CrossbowDontMiss



Series: Crash [2]
Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt!Daryl, Hurt/Comfort, In which Daryl cares too much about strangers, M/M, Minor OC Death, Protective!Rick, and Rick cares too much about him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossbowDontMiss/pseuds/CrossbowDontMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Daryl's late getting back from a run, Rick tries not to worry. It's not past curfew yet and things happen. But when Daryl shows up one man light and one girl heavy, looking more than a little worse for wear, Rick's got to figure out what happened and what needs to happen to deal with the aftermath of a run gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hell of a Day

It's been a hell of a day. Since that herd moved in the night before, they've been up to their eyeballs in walkers. Rick'd had half a mind to cancel the run that morning because of it, only with their supplies running low, it wasn't an option. Daryl had agreed.

Getting them out had been a trick. Just Daryl and a new fella, Joel Batewood, went out. Everyone else, they needed back at the prison, making sure they didn't get any pileups at the fences and hopefully clearing a path for when Daryl and Joel got back.

They were expecting them back around noon, so they did most of their work before then, taking a pretty big chunk out of the herd and luring the rest away with a quick jaunt out in one of the kids' Chargers. It's old school – Glen made a crack about coming full circle before he got behind the wheel – but it did the trick. They're back down to more or less their usual stragglers come afternoon.

Turns out, they could've taken their time. It's closing in on five in the afternoon. The sun's still out, so there's no call for worry yet, but Rick's got eyes out for them. Too much longer, they'll be breaking curfew, and that's not a habit they make around there. But Rick knows it's easy to get caught up out there. Maybe take a little extra time, play it safe. Daryl's smart; Rick trusts him, not just to bring back the supplies they need, but to bring himself back. He knows what it means to the others. To Rick. He knows what  _he_  means. He'll be back soon enough.

The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

So, Rick doesn't. Think about it, that is. Instead, he focuses on useful things, like checking the stakes on the bean plants and putting food out for the animals. He's got water to get, too. Hot day like this, most everybody working, people get thirsty. Dehydration's a dangerous thing, and it's best to avoid it if they can.

It's when he's on his way down to the pump, a bucket in each hand, that he hears all the commotion. There's people shouting for him from the east side of the yard – sounds like Maggie and Michonne – and they sound like it's urgent. Rick could probably think of a few reasons that might be, if he tried, but right at the moment, only one comes to mind.

Daryl.

He's moving before he can finish the thought, short as it is, dropping the buckets and making for the east gate quick as his legs'll carry him. "Maggie?" he shouts as he sprints full tilt across the yard. Those aren't the sounds of a party coming back. There's something wrong. "What's going on?"

Maggie's running out towards him, and they meet something close to halfway, except she doesn't stop, just changes directions and runs alongside him back to the gate. "It's Daryl," she says. "He's back, but he's on foot and he's got somebody with him, but the walkers are going after him."

That's a whole lot to process at once. Daryl's back from the run, but he's on foot, which means he lost the car. He's got a girl with him, so he must've found her along the way. And nobody's mentioned seeing Joel with him, so that like as not means he's not there. But all that fails to really register in light of the last bit. It's the one that's got him picking up his pace, even quicker than before, and grabbing a crowbar hanging on one of the fences.

There're walkers after Daryl.

"How bad?" he shouts, even though Maggie's right next to him. It's adrenaline and a mad sprint, and Maggie's shouting right back.

"I don't know. Michonne went out to help him. Glen, too."

Rick can see them, now. Not Daryl – he reckons he's somewhere on the other side of the pack of walkers making for the tree line – but he can see Glen and Maggie running headlong into the fray. He wants to say they shouldn't 'a gone running out, but he can't bring himself to, because truth is, he'd have done the same thing if he was there.

Matter of fact, he does. He sprints through the gate, crowbar in hand and at the ready, and behind him, he can hear all sorts of noise at the gate. Pots, rattling on the fences, trying to draw as many walkers away as they can while the three of them try to get to Daryl and whoever it is he's got with him.

Rick can see him, now. He's up by the trees, knife in one hand, holding a little girl with the other. And even fro where he is, he can see the blood all over the pair of them.

He runs even faster.

He's caught up with Glen and Michonne, now. They slowed up at the edge of the walkers, trying to clear a path through it looks like, but there are more walkers than's easy to deal with, especially for just the three of them.

"Rick, go," Michonne says when he takes down a walker at her left flank.

That gets Glen's attention, and after he knocks down another walker with a piece of curved rebar, he waves Rick past. "Go on! Get Daryl. We'll clear a path for you."

And Rick doesn't bother arguing or thinking it over. It's a plan, and it's simple, and it involves him getting to Daryl as soon as possible, before he's overrun by walkers. Far as Rick's concerned, that's three points in its favor.

He breaks through. Most of the walkers are up by Glen and Michonne, or else at the gates where the others are making all the noise. There's only a few really close to Daryl, but with his hands more or less taken up, that's a few too many. Especially now that Rick's getting closer. He can see the blood on him, down the side of his face, and the bandana tied around his leg – he's hurt. Rick don't know how bad, but it's enough to slow him down, and that's enough to be dangerous.

"Daryl!" he calls out, just as he's reaching him. He doesn't spare time for a big reunion, though. Much as he thinks it might help if he could take some of those bags Daryl's got, or the little girl, they don't have time to pass off. Glen's shouting for them to come on, and a glance back at the fence shows the walkers ain't falling for the pots and pans anymore.

So, instead, he grabs him by the back of one of the bags, and he starts running. Daryl does too, and they're making pretty good time through the path Geln and Michonne cleared, right up until Daryl loses his footing. He doesn't trip, far as Rick can tell; it's like his legs just give out. Rick keeps going, though, tugging on the bag and half-dragging Daryl back to his feet.

"C'mon," he hisses, urging Daryl on faster. "Little more. C'mon." And Rick's not real sure why, but he feels like he's just run a marathon when he makes it back inside the gates with Daryl and his load. Glen and Michonne are right behind them, and Maggie's waiting with Carl to close the gates just as soon as they're in.

Daryl's just barely clear of them when he drops like a sack of potatoes. He somehow manages to keep his hold of the little girl, has her cradled in his arms, so she doesn't hit when he goes to his knees, but Rick can tell that's just about all he can do. He's past spent, running on fumes and sheer force of will.

"Daryl?" he says tentatively, squatting down in front of him. He can see now, all the blood matted on the side of his head. His left eye's near swollen shut, and his nose is all bloody and bruised. Whatever happened, he knocked his head pretty good, and there's an awful lot of blood around the bandana on his thigh. "You alright?"

"Get Hershel."

It's not really the answer he was looking for, but he takes it as a sign the answer's no, if Daryl's asking for Hershel. He doesn't explain any more than that, doesn't say why he needs Hershel or where he's hurt or how bad, just that. And he keeps saying it, too. Telling them, in this voice halfway between frenzied and distracted, to go get Hershel, that she's hurt and needs help.

"We'll get her help," Rick tells him. "Hershel's on his way – we'll get you both looked at, alright?"

"'m'fine," Daryl says. He's not looking up at Rick, or even at the little girl. He's staring at the ground, and he's sucking wind in these short panted, gasping breaths, like he's having trouble breathing. "S'her. She needs help. I'm fine, just her."

There's something not right about the way he's talking. It's quick, repetitive. Frantic, in a way that makes something in Rick's chest twist. He moves in a little closer, tries to reach for the girl, but Daryl jerks her back. "Hey, I just wanna get a look at her."

"Where's Hershel?"

"He's comin', but you need to let her go so he can see her when he gets here."

But Daryl's shaking his head. "Just get 'im."

"We are, but—"

"Rick." It's Maggie that realizes it first. She's standing behind him, and when he glances back from Daryl to her, she nods back at the little girl. And when Rick turns around to see what she's talking about, that's when he sees them: open eyes. Glassy. Unseeing.

Dead.

The little girl's dead.

And what's more – Daryl seems like the only one's not noticed. They're all talking to each other, all got worried looks in their eyes like they're not real sure what to make of things. Daryl's holding a dead girl, going on like she's still alive. And maybe he just ain't noticed it yet, maybe he was too busy running from those walkers, trying to get back in.

Or maybe he knows, he just won't let himself believe it.

"The hell're you people standin' around for?" Daryl barks suddenly, and he's got his eyes raised up and looking around at them. "Didn't y'all hear me? I said get Hershel."

"Carl," Rick says slowly, barely daring to take his eyes off the girl now he knows she's dead. He don't know how long she's been that way, but he knows there's no telling when she could come back. If Daryl's not ready for it, then he will be. "Go see where Hershel is." Maybe he can talk some sense into him, figure out some way to talk Daryl down, coax the girl out of his arms so they can take care of her.

And more importantly, so they can take care of him.

"No need for that." It's Hershel, and Rick glances back again to see him walking up on the little group they've got gathered in the yard inside the gate. "I'm here." And he doesn't stop to ask what's going on, just walks right up next to Rick and kneels down in front of Daryl like he knows just what's what, despite just getting there a few seconds ago.

Daryl seems relieved to see him, too. His eyes are squinted – or else swollen, which might be the more likely, between that bump on his head and the blood under his nose – but he's looking at Hershel like he's Jesus come again.

"Do somethin'," he says. He sounds unsteady, his voice like sandpaper, and desperate. Pleading. Helpless. Rick knows the sound, but he ain't sure he's ever heard it coming from Daryl. "Help her."

Rick's not real sure what to do. Does he tell him she's dead? He's already worked up; Rick's not sure working him up any more's the right way to go. But they can't just sit there waiting for the girl to come back and take a chunk out of him. And that's ignoring the fact that Daryl's bleeding all over the place himself.

Mercifully, Hershel seems to have a grasp on it. He shifts in a mite closer to Daryl so he can reach for him, put a hand on his shoulder, then one on the little girl's thin neck. He reckons he's just making sure.

Rick's not expecting good news, but it still hits him when he shakes his head.

Seems to hit Daryl, too, just in a different way. "What're you shakin' your head for?" he bites out. He sounds like he can't decide if he wants to be scared or angry, so he's settled for someplace in between. "Stop wastin' time."

Hershel, to his credit, doesn't react. He's calm as still water, hand on Daryl's shoulder still there and holding firm. "Why don't you sit her down, son?" Hershel says gently. Rick doesn't know if it's that obvious that Daryl's not himself, or if Hershel's just got an eye for that sort of thing. Might be he's gotten used to seeing it, and Rick knows he's partly to blame for that.

Daryl's back to shaking his head, though. Not a good sign, and Rick can't imagine it's doing great things for the concussion he's probably got, if that goose egg straddling his temple's anything to go by. He looks torn, like he's not real sure what he wants to do. Whether he wants to yell some more, do what they say, do something different…his face is all screwed up, lips drawn tight and brows pulled in so tight he's pulled open the cut over his eye again.

"Should get 'er inside," is what he finally seems to decide on, and he starts to stand. Starts to. He doesn't make it far at all before Rick and Hershel are both pushing him down. Not that it takes much; Rick's not real sure Daryl could stand on his own even if they let him.

"Why don't you let one of us take her?" Hershel tries. "You're barely in any shape to be walking on your own."

"Made it here, didn't I?" He's getting frustrated, it sounds like. His voice has got that edge to it, not so much like a growl as a snarl. Like someone's gone and pissed off a bobcat.

Rick knows a turn for the worse when he sees it, and he knows this situation's fixing to take one. "C'mon, Daryl. Just do like he says."

Hershel joins in, too. "We're just trying to help you, son."

"No!" Daryl snaps. His voice is hitched high and reedy with strain, and it looks like he's having a harder and harder time catching his breath, but he's holding tight to the girl and standing his ground. Tough son of a bitch. "To hell with all y'all. Ain't none 'a you listenin' to me? Said I's fine. She's the one needs help – the girl, goddammit, not me."

"The girl is dead."


	2. The Deed Is Done

In the end, Michonne's the one that does it, the one that finally says what it is none of them want to. The one that tells him the truth.

But Daryl don't want to hear it. Well, shit, none of them want to, but it's like Daryl  _refuses_  to hear it. He's shaking his head again, and instead of letting her go, he's holding her closer. It's like he thinks if he holds onto her tight enough, it'll be alright. She'll be alright. Problem is, hard as Daryl's worked to get her back there, no amount of effort on his part's gonna do what he wants done. No amount of trying's gonna make her alive again, at least not in the sense he wants.

"Daryl, please," Rick tries, reaching for him, but Daryl flinches back like he's trying to hit him. He won't look him in the eyes, won't hardly even look at him at all, and that hurts more than it should. It's not Daryl's fault; he knows that. He just needs him to see reason, before that little girl comes back and finishes whatever job was done to him in the first place. "Daryl, there's nothin' else you can do here. She's gone."

"She ain't," Daryl mutters through gritted teeth. He sounds dead set, determined, and desperate in the kind of way that strikes a little too close to home for Rick. "She ain't gone. She's right here; ain't you lookin'? I got her here. I got her home, just like I said I would."

Rick's not real sure who he's talking about, who he told, but then, he doesn't reckon it matters much. Daryl's the kind of man to keep his word. If he told somebody he'd do something, especially something like this, Rick's got no doubt in his mind he'd do whatever it took to get it done.

It's beyond his power, now, though. He's done all he can, and there's nothing else he can do. Nothing else any of them can do, not for her. It's about Daryl, now. About getting him safe and looked after, getting him calmed down from whatever it is has him so riled up.

"He's not making any sense," Glen's saying quietly, like he doesn't mean for other people to hear it, but they do.

Hershel glances back at him, then back at Daryl. He's not holding onto him anymore; Rick's not real sure Daryl'd let him, just looking at him with that worried, thoughtful look of his. "He's probably dehydrated," he says. "Might be in shock from his wounds, but I can't be sure until I get a look at him."

"We need to get that girl from him before she turns," Michonne chimes in.

"Don't you fuckin' touch her," Daryl nigh-on growls. He's still not meeting anybody's eyes, but that's not the tone of voice somebody takes lightly. Daryl's not a man for empty threats, and there's no telling what kind of state he's really in. He wouldn't hurt them, the people in their group, but that's under normal circumstances. That's when he's got his head on right, and right now, Rick's not sure that applies. "You ain't puttin' her down. I ain't lettin' you."

Problem is, the situation's not such that they get to give him a choice.

Glancing back, Rick catches Tyrese's eyes and nods. He's not sure how much fight Daryl's got left in him, but he's not taking chances. Not with Daryl. The man's a fighter, and when he's backed into a corner, he's dangerous. Rick knows better than to try to handle him on his own, at least until he knows for sure how much Daryl's got left in the tank.

Tyrese seems to understand, and Hershel makes way for him, moving back as Tyrese moves forward. And whatever's going on in that head of Daryl's, he's still sharp, because his eyes dart between Rick and Tyrese, and he starts to move.

"No you don't." Because Rick's already moving, and when Daryl tries to flinch back this time, he doesn't let him. He gets him by the shoulder, and Tyrese gets him by the other one, and between the two of them, they're hauling him back. Daryl wants no part of it, of course; when Michonne goes to pull the girl away the same time they're pulling him back, he holds on tight as he can manage. But strong as he is, he's got nothing left, and there's three of them to his one. Michonne gets the girl turned loose, and drags her out away from Daryl.

"Let go 'a me!" Daryl's hollering, but they keep going until they're well clear. He bucks and thrashes in their grip, but they've both got pretty solid grips on him.

"No," Rick says, gently as he can with as hard as he's having to fight to keep a hold of Daryl. His teeth are gritted from the effort, but he tries to keep his voice level. Calm. "I don't think that'd be a good idea. Just settle down, alright? Just take it easy."

This time, it's Tyrese that catches his eyes, over Daryl's head. "You got this?" He's got a grim set to his jaw, and Rick recalls he's still not fond of killing. It being a little girl doesn't make it any easier.

Rick nods. "I got him." Daryl's a wily son of a bitch. Squirrelly, but he's hurt pretty bad by the looks of things. He's not moving his arm too much over on Tyrese's side, and he can't get any footing, especially with his right leg. It'll be a struggle, but Rick knows he can manage it.

Tyrese waits until he's got a good enough grip on him, one arm barred around his chest, and the other holding the back of his neck, and then he lets him go. For a second, it's like a bronco just being saddled the first time, a whole lot of fight in him that didn't seem there before springing to life. He tries making a lunge, but Rick just digs his knees and heels in the ground, leans into him, and Daryl's not going anywhere.

"Easy, now," he soothes. "Easy. You're alright."

Daryl doesn't settle down, though, especially not once Michonne pulls out her knife. He starts screaming bloody murder, then, throwing all his weight against Rick's shoulder and thrashing around like a man possessed, but it's not enough.

"No!" Rick doesn't think he's heard Daryl make a sound like that since they found his brother's hand on the roof of that department store back in Atlanta, high-pitched and twisted with the kind of pain that can't be put to words. It doesn't get any better as Michonne kneels down next to the girl, knife in hand. "Don't!"

"She don't have a choice," Rick tries telling him, for all the good it does. He knows it's just wasted breath, won't make it hurt any less. So Rick holds him tighter, curls his hand around the base of Daryl's neck, and holds him, because there's nothing else he can do.

When the knife goes in, it's like Daryl's been stabbed himself. "No!" he screams like it's some kind of mantra.

And in a way, Rick feels it, too. He doesn't know what happened out there. He doesn't know why Daryl was so hell bent on getting that girl back safe, beyond his own good heart, but he knows it mattered to him. He knows it mattered a lot.

"It's done," he says as he holds Daryl through another wave of thrashes and bucks. There really isn't anything he can do for her, now. The deed's been done. "It's over, now. She's gone. I'm sorry."

"Rick." Hershel's voice draws at least some of his focus away from the broken man in his arms, but he doesn't risk trying to look back at him. He doesn't need to. Hershel comes up beside him, lays a hand on his shoulder. "You should take him on inside. Get him some water, have him drink it down slow. I'll be in shortly."

It's an instruction Rick's all too happy to follow. Daryl doesn't need to be around for the cleanup. He's seen enough.

"Alright," he says, and starts to stand, pulling Daryl up with him. It's tricky. Daryl doesn't want to go, and what's more, his leg doesn't seem to want to hold him up. His balance, usually damn-near incredible, is all off-kilter, so he ends up leaning on Rick as much as he tries to tug away. Poor son of a bitch.

It kills him to do it, but Rick ends up using it to his advantage. He ends up having to more or less manhandle Daryl into moving, steering him away from the girl and up towards the prison with one of his arms pulled over his shoulders and his own hand around his waist. Daryl's just kind of stumbling along, like he's somewhere between shock and stubbornness. He tugs back on occasion, but mostly, he just stumbles, and Rick holds him up. "Come on, now. You did all you could. 's time to look after you, now."

He knows it's not much comfort, especially to someone like Daryl who's spent so long being defined by his failures that he does it to himself. No doubt he's making a running tally of all the ways he could've been faster, could've done better.

Rick knows all too well, because he's got a similar habit.

Now's not the time for that, though. It's too damn fresh for any sort of resolution, and there're other things they got to worry about. Daryl's in bad shape. He doesn't know how bad or what by, but he's thinking it's got something to do with what happened to the girl, and the thought of the same thing happening to Daryl's enough to keep Rick moving on into the cellblock and into his own cell – his is closest; Daryl's is on the second level, up high where he seems to like to be – where he can get him sitting down on the bed.

Daryl hasn't spoken since they left the gates. Hasn't made a damn sound, and now that he's sitting down, he's doing just that: sitting. Staring. He doesn't open his mouth, and he doesn't raise his eyes from the ground. Rick can't tell if he's angry or upset or shocked or some combination of the three, but he knows it's nothing good.

"Hey," he says softly, squatting down a little in front of Daryl and reaching for his shoulder. He's not expecting him to flinch back, and he's not sure how much of it's how Daryl's feeling towards him, and how much of it's the bruise he can see peeking out from under his torn sleeves. In hindsight, they probably ought to've been gentler with him. In hindsight, Rick reckons they probably ought to've done a lot of things they didn't. It's not the sort of thing a man should dwell on, though, least not when he's got shit to do. "Hey, you with me?"

No answer.

"Daryl? You with me?"

Again, no answer.

Rick doesn't try again. Instead, he lets out a sigh and stands. He's got stuff to do. Things he can be getting for Hershel when he gets back.

The rest'll have to wait.


	3. Sign of Things to Come

With each passing second, Rick's getting more and more worried about Daryl.

It's not just his injuries. Those alone are bad enough, and that's just the ones Rick can see, but there's something else pulling the knot tighter in the pit of his gut.

It's the way he's sitting there, the way he's been sitting there since Rick first put him down. Rick went to grab him some water, get started getting him hydrated like Hershel says, and when he comes back, Daryl hasn't moved.

It's like he's closed up shop, gone someplace in his own head Rick's not invited. His eyes are wide as Rick's ever seen them, at least the one that's not on its way to swelling shut, and fixed low on the wall on the other side of Rick's cell. They don't move, either, not even when Rick moves in front of him with a bottle of water he means to get him to drink from. He's got this thousand yard stare going, and the short little panted breaths don't do much to make Rick feel any better, either. They, alongside the quick bounce of his good leg up and down on the concrete – even worn out like he clearly is, Daryl's got too much nervous energy in him to sit dead still – are the only signs Rick's got to go on that he's not just sleeping with his eyes open.

"Got you some water," Rick starts, dragging the stool from the corner of the room to sit in front of Daryl on the bed. He reckons Hershel'll need it when he finally makes it back up there.

If Daryl hears him, it doesn't show.

Rick frowns, but never let it be said he gives up easy. Especially not when it comes to looking after his own. "Daryl," he tries again, sitting down on the stool and putting himself straight on in Daryl's line of sight. "Hershel says you got to drink something."

Nothing doing.

Now, Daryl's not the most articulate man Rick's ever had the pleasure of meeting, but this isn't like him. He doesn't ignore people. And Rick doesn't mean it to sound full of himself or to assume anything he's got no place assuming, but Daryl sure as hell doesn't ignore  _him_.

Which gets Rick to thinking he might have even more to worry about than he thought, because way he sees it, there's really only two reasons for Daryl to do what he's doing: one is he's gone into some sort of state of shock, checked out of his head for the time being. And with the way he's shaking, despite the bright red of his sunburned skin, Rick really does think that might be a part of what's happening.

He's not fool enough to think that's all there is to it, though. He's doing it deliberately, Daryl is. He's blocking Rick out, or else just flat out ignoring him, and Rick can't help but think it's because Daryl's upset with him. Something to do with the little girl, holding him back while Michonne did what needed to be done to keep him and everybody else safe.

He can't fault him for it, though, if that's the case. Not without knowing what happened first. And if he knows Daryl, which he reckons he does as much as anybody can, then he must'a gone through hell trying to get that little girl back to them. There are just some things that can't be done, even by a man like Daryl Dixon.

So, no, Rick can't fault him for it. All he can do's get more worried, and he lets out a sigh and runs his free hand through his hair. "Please," he says, holding out the bottle of water and willing Daryl to snap out of whatever this is and take it. "Please, just drink somethin'."

When Daryl doesn't make so much as a move to take the bottle, or even acknowledge that Rick's holding it – or hell, that Rick's even there in the first place – Rick tries to reach for his shoulder. He doesn't mean him any harm, doesn't mean to make him do something he doesn't want to do. All he wants is to touch him. Reach out and bridge the gap that's opened up between them. Daryl's a creature of touch, and Rick hopes that if he can't get through to him with words alone, that maybe that'll do the trick.

He hasn't even managed to lay a hand on him, though, when Daryl shies back again. This time, he knows it's not skittishness; it's like he just doesn't want to be touched, at least not by Rick.

It's not what Rick'd call a good sign of things to come.

"At least tell me where you're hurt." It comes out sounding an awful lot like a plea, but Rick's getting close to the end of his rope, and he knows Daryl's barely hanging onto his.

"Said I's fine."

It's so quiet, Rick barely hears it. Truth be told, he was just expecting more of the same: silence. He wasn't expecting an answer. Granted, it's not much of one, and if it's not an outright lie, Rick's not quite sure what to call it. There's nothing about Daryl that's fine, and if he doesn't know that, then he must've taken a harder knock to the head than Rick thought.

More likely, though, he's just being contrary. Maybe not deliberately – Rick'll give him the benefit of the doubt, and besides that, it's just not in his character. He's upset. He's hurting. He's all bent out of shape, and past the point most men probably would've buckled and broke down, and Rick understands how it feels to be there. It's why he's fighting so hard to keep hold of his temper, even when his nerves are frayed down to the last.

"Daryl, please," he says. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what happened to the girl—"

"Sarah." Daryl's still not looking up, but his fists're curled tight in his lap, and his jaws are clenched so tight Rick could swear he hears teeth grinding. "Her name's Sarah."

Something in the way he says it dares Rick not to acknowledge it. To acknowledge  _her_. There's a lot of power in a name; Rick knows that. It's why he doesn't ask them until the other three questions are answered to his satisfaction: because knowing someone's name makes them human. Makes them real. To them, Sarah might've just been another dead body, another lost life, but to Daryl, she was alive.

Rick swallows the lump that's jumped up in his throat. "Sarah," he echoes, and he gives the name its due, if not out of respect for the girl, then out of respect for Daryl. "I know you tried to help her, and I'm sorry she didn't make it. But you got to let us help you."

At that, for nearly the first time since he got back, Daryl raises his eyes from his staring match with the wall. If Rick's being honest, though, there's a part of him that wishes he hadn't. The look he sees in them, the pain in those watery blue eyes – one's blood red, too, around the iris, like a vessel's burst; he didn't notice before – and something that looks an awful lot like self-loathing, it's enough to drive a knife in Rick's heart and give it a twist.

"Why?"

It's just the one word; it's not even all that loud or sharp. But something in it still stops Rick in his tracks. It's just so damn heavy. Intense, just like nigh on everything Daryl says and does. He wants an answer.

Problem is, Rick's not sure he has one to give.

It ought to be obvious, he thinks. Why the hell wouldn't Rick want to help? And why the hell wouldn't Daryl want to let them? It ought to be simple as that.

Only, it's not. It never is, it seems like, and somehow, Rick gets the feeling he's asking more than what he actually asked. Daryl's got a knack for that, meaning more than he says. Rick reckons it probably comes from his not saying all that much to begin with.

"Come again?" is all he can think of to say. He feels like a damn fool the moment it leaves his mouth, but he's got nothing better to tack on.

Daryl growls, a low, irritated sound from the back of his throat that Rick knows'd probably be a lot scarier if he wasn't panting and hugging his middle. "Why?" he repeats through gritted teeth, and Rick doesn't want to think about the effort it seems to take for him to manage just that much. He just wants to call it all off. Ignore everything until Hershel gets there, spend the meantime trying to offer what little comfort he can to a man he cares for more than he can put to words that's been through hell and then some.

He can't, though. Damn him, damn  _everything_ , but he can't.

"Why what?"

To be fair, it's Rick that raises his voice first. He doesn't mean to, really. He's not pissed at Daryl; he's just pissed. It's not right. None of it is. Not a little girl dying, not another one of their people missing – probably dead – and sure as shit not Daryl being put through whatever kind of fresh hell this is.

He doesn't get a chance to explain that, though, is the problem. Not before Daryl's raising his voice right back. "Why the hell's it matter?" he shouts. "She's dead! Her folks're dead. Joel's dead. All of 'em are dead, so what the hell's it matter?"

For a second, Rick's dumbstruck. He doesn't know that he's ever heard Daryl shout like that, but more than how he said it, it's what he said that's really got Rick gaping.

But then Daryl's rising, and that snaps Rick right out of it. He goes too fast for Rick to stop him; he just barely manages to get his own feet under him by the time Daryl's on his, and he's steeling himself for whatever else Daryl's got to get off his chest.

Only, it never comes.

Daryl only just gets vertical when Rick sees his face go a sick shade of greenish gray, and then he's going down. It's not dramatic; he doesn't crumple so much as tip forward, like he's just lost his balance, which is good, because Rick actually manages to step in and catch him this way. He's not real sure he could've the other.

He swears as he grabs Daryl around the shoulders, struggling to get a good grip on him at first to keep him from face-planting into the floor. He's got enough injuries without adding more to the mix, and although Rick's not real sure what kind of shape Daryl's in beyond the fairly obvious "not good," he generally tends to think of passing out as being pretty damn high on the list of bad signs.

And that's what he does: passes out. Rick thinks he might hear him mutter something against his shoulder when he catches him, might be "Sarah," although he can't help thinking it sounds a little more like "Sophia." But by the time he gets Daryl back onto the bunk where he can see his face, he's out cold.

Rick feels his gut lurch. Daryl's skin's a strange mix of cold and clammy to the touch and warm where the sun's burned it red. He's got his hand cupping Daryl's face, and he can feel the slick of sweat and blood against his palm that shouldn't unsettle him near as much as it does.

"Hershel!" he calls out, loud enough it's bound to at least make it through the cell block. He needs help. He's got no idea what he's doing, and he needs Hershel to tell him what's what, preferably pronto. "Hershel, get in here!"

When he doesn't hear him come in, he glances over at the cell door, but there's nobody there. Gritting his teeth, he turns back to Daryl. "C'mon," he says. "Wake up." He tries speeding along the process, giving Daryl's blotchy cheeks a few light slaps, but Daryl doesn't even stir. Which is strange for Rick, on account of him being so used to Daryl and his feather light sleeping habits. Rick swears up and down Daryl can hear you staring at him when he's sleeping, and it's enough to wake him up. To see him so unresponsive to something like that's startling.

"Hershel!"

Mercifully, this time, he hears footsteps at the door. "Rick? What happened?"

Sad thing is, Rick was sort of hoping Hershel could tell him that. "I don't know. He tried gettin' up, then he just blacked out, and he's not comin' back around." He's well aware he sounds a mite panicky, but that's 'cause he is. He's good in high-pressure situations when it's a matter of life and death, but here there's not a whole hell of a lot he can do that's gonna change things one way or the other. And that's a troubling place for Rick to be in.

Hershel, for his part, looks terse, but not quite Rick's level of stress. "Alright, just try and stay calm," he says. Easier said than done, but Rick bites his tongue to keep from saying it. "Let me get a look at him.

Rick doesn't hesitate, just dumbly steps out of the way so Hershel can get to Daryl, and just as dumbly watches as Hershel checks his pulse, his breathing, then lifts his eyelids and tilts his head a little.

When he seems satisfied, Hershel eases Daryl's head back down on the pillow. "He's just passed out," he tells Rick in the tone of voice Rick thinks is meant to be reassuring.

"So, he's alright?"

Hershel's face is still set hard and sober, though. "Won't know that until I check the rest of him." And he must see something on Rick's face, because he adds on at the end, "But his pulse is strong and steady, and his pupils aren't too badly dilated. Probably just a mild concussion. The dehydration and blood loss probably aren't doing him any favors, either."

That's an explanation Rick's a little more at ease with. They're no strangers to concussions there, nor to dehydration, or even blood loss. And while the three of them together mean Daryl's gonna be sick as a dog the next few days, none of them alone the way Hershel's described them are life threatening.

That's good news in Rick's book. Real good, especially considering what happened to everyone else. How Daryl made it out, Rick'll just have to chalk up to his being the toughest son of a bitch he's ever met, at least until he can ask him and find out otherwise. But the way they live, Rick's learned not to look gift horses in their mouths, and he's learned to take every bit of good news and run with it. So, that's what he does.

"Just tell me what you need me to do."


	4. He'll Be Alright

It takes a while to get him fixed up. Rick stays, and between the two of them, they've got plenty of hands. But Daryl's got plenty of hurts, and Hershel don't believe in half-assing anything. Rick either, and sure as hell not this.

Daryl stirs a few times while they're at it. First time, it's a relief when Rick hears that quiet groan that says he's coming back around, first time he sees the sliver of blue behind his bruised eyelids. Even if Hershel doesn't think the concussion's too bad, it's good to know he's still with them.

He's not real coherent, though, and that turns out to be a problem. It's hard enough getting Daryl to sit still when he knows it's good for him, but Hershel's right in the middle of trying to stitch up the gash on his thigh, and Daryl must not like that much, because he starts trying to move away. It's sluggish, like he's more than half asleep and not real sure what's going on, and it's not too hard for Rick to hold him still. But by the same right, being half asleep means he's not got as hard a front on as he normally does. Conscious, Daryl could break his damn finger and not make so much as a sound – Rick only uses that one because it's happened most recently, when the hatch of the guard tower came down on his hand – but like this, it's not the same.

He whines. It starts off as mumbles, but when it registers somewhere underneath all that fog and muck in his head that the pain's not stopping and there's nothing he can do to make it, he whines. They're breathy, barely audible; Rick knows he doesn't mean to make them. He's not even sure he's got his wits about him enough to mean much of anything. But they're miserable little sounds, and with his face all screwed up and his now-bare chest heaving, Rick hates it.

"Shh," he soothes, smoothing his free hand over the side of Daryl's head that's not a bloody mess. Hershel's not got around to that just yet; his leg was first priority, the way it was bleeding. "You're alright. Settle down, now. You're alright." As he speaks, he keeps his voice low. Quiet. It seems to him like Daryl's in that place between sleeping and being awake, and he doesn't want to tip the scales towards the latter. If experience is anything to go on, Daryl ought to settle back down; he could sure as hell use the rest.

Sure enough, Daryl starts to quiet down. His breathing starts to slow; his bleary, unfocused eyes start to slide closed, and he stops trying to shift around so much.

Rick doesn't stop though. Keeps one hand brushing through his sweat-dampened hair, keeps the other on his hip where Hershel's turned his boxers down to get at a cut on the other, thumb stroking a pattern on the skin where it dips along the bone. Hershel hardly seems to notice, but then, Rick doesn't reckon it'd worry him much if he did. Not with so much else to worry about. "There you go," he says. "Just go on back to sleep, now. We got you."

And when Daryl drifts off, the room goes silent again. He and Hershel don't have much to say – Hershel likely because he's too focused on patching Daryl up, and Rick because he's too busy thinking and trying to be as much help to Hershel as he can be without getting in the way – and besides a few instructions and questions here or there, that's how they continue on.

It happens two more times, Daryl stirring, but it's mostly just more of the same. He's not coherent enough to speak, barely registers anything that's going on around him. He just comes around a little, maybe mutters a few things, maybe groans, shifts around a bit either trying to get comfortable or to get away from their prodding hands, but he always goes right on back to sleep without ever really waking up.

Truth be told, Rick doesn't mind much. Daryl needs the rest, they need him still and cooperative, and something tells Rick the conversation they're gonna have to have when he really does wake up isn't gonna be anything to look forward to.

Luckily, it seems like Rick's gonna get plenty of time to prepare.

They're coming up on the two-hour mark when Hershel finally sits back in the stool, hands wiping Daryl's blood away on a washcloth. "That should do it," he says, and Rick notices he sounds tired. He reckons if he spoke, he'd be liable to sound the same way; he just doesn't care.

Altogether, Daryl got it pretty bad. Under the bandages on his head, he's got stitches holding closed the torn skin on his temple, and Rick reckons come morning, his left eye'll be swollen shut. His right's not too much better; Hershel says his nose isn't broken, but it came damn close.

His left arm's in a sling. Turns out that bruising Rick caught earlier is just about as bad as it looks, and they don't know if it was dislocated or not – hard to tell, since it wasn't when they got to it – but they both agree it'll be best if he's easy on it the next few weeks.

Of course, Rick reckons Daryl'll be laid up about that long for his leg, anyhow. He's got a gash down the outside of his right one, about as long as Rick's hand and deep enough that Hershel was throwin' around words like 'soft tissue damage' and 'physical therapy.' He reckons Hershel'll have to be in charge of that, or else maybe one of the Woodbury folks, because he doesn't know the first thing about it.

On top of all that, he's got enough cuts and bruises to make a boxer cry to his momma; might be the same one it looks like went to town on his ribs. In all, he's a damn vision, and not a real good one.

But he's alive. And is likely to stay that way, if Hershel's to be believed. Which is more than they can say about anybody else that was with him, he reckons.

It reminds him, "You ever figure out what happened to the little girl?" he says, and then, because he can almost hear Daryl's voice in his head correcting him, he amends himself. "Sarah."

The look that passes over Hershel's face is one Rick's seen too damn much of these last couple years: sad, helpless…grim. "She bled out into her belly. Don't know what happened to her." He nodded to Daryl. "I suppose we'll have to wait 'til he comes around to find that out. But even if he'd managed to bring her back as soon as it'd happened, there wouldn't've been anything I could've done for her. It wasn't his fault."

"I never said it was." It's a kneejerk response, more reflex than anything. It comes out before he can figure out that's probably not what Hershel meant.

Sure enough, "You're not the one I'm worried about," Hershel says. "It's him that'll need convincing."

And Rick knows that's the truth. Some of what was going on – the hysterics, all the fighting and the teeth gnashing and screaming – Rick can chalk up to everything he knows now is wrong with him. Blood loss, dehydration, and head trauma'll do a lot to a man, and none of it good.

The rest, though…that guilty, haunted look he caught a glimpse of in Daryl's eyes, the hell the state of him says he must've gone through trying to get her back…that's not going away. Time might heal all wounds, but a man like Daryl gets cut deep, even if he tries to hide it. If experience is anything to go on, there's some wounds under the skin that need some airing out, and it might take some cutting to get to them. Rick's not lookin' forward to it. Not in the least.

Movement in the corner of his eye snaps him out of his head, and he turns to see Carol standing in the doorway. It's the first he's seen of her since all of this. He knows she's had her hands full with clearing up the last couple packs of walkers at the gates.

"Is he alright?" Her voice is quiet, and for a second, Rick thinks it's probably because she doesn't want to wake Daryl up. But then he glances out at the cell block past the curtain she's holding open and sees it's dark, and he realizes it might be that she's trying to keep from waking everybody else up.

"He'll make it," Hershel says. He's standing, one hand on Rick's shoulder to help push himself up. Rick doesn't mind. Hell, it feels good to actually do something, even if it's just giving an old friend a boost. "What he needs now is rest. Same goes for all of us. I'll be back in the morning to check his dressings." And after giving Rick's shoulder a firm squeeze, he slips past Carol and out of the cell.

As Hershel goes out, Carol comes in, coming up to stand beside Rick by the bed. Rick doesn't need to look at her to know there's worry in her eyes, to know she's cataloguing every last bandage and bruise on Daryl's body before she reaches down to the foot of the bed and smoothes out the blanket they've pulled up to his waist.

It's moments like this Rick's struck by the relationship between them. She loves him, and Daryl loves her. Not the same way as Rick and Daryl do, but maybe just as much. He wonders if their histories have anything to do with it – both put through shit nobody has any place being put through by the worst kinds of people, and coming out the other side survivors. He reckons they understand each other, in a way not a whole hell of a lot of people can.

"What happened to him?" she asks softly, after a long moment passes in silence.

Rick lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's just stalling; they both know it. "I don't know." And for a man like Rick, even now that he's stepped down as unofficial leader, that's a hard thing to say. "All I know's that it was bad. He's in rough shape."

He's not just talking about the physical, either. That's bad enough on its own, but it's not on its own.

"He'll be alright."

Rick glances up, a bit surprised by the statement, but all he sees is Carol standing there, hand still resting on Daryl's hip, a firm look in her eyes. There's no doubt in her voice; she says it like it's fact. And Rick can't help but envy her for that. It's not that he doesn't trust Daryl. Not that he doesn't think he's the toughest son of a bitch he's ever met. He's just so damn scared of taking him for granted…and yet, when he lets his eyes drift over the parts of Daryl's arms and chest and belly that aren't covered in bandages, he sees the scars. Some are gruesome; some make Rick's jaw clench even now thinking of how he got them. But each and every one of them's proof of what Daryl is: a survivor. If what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, then Rick reckons Daryl ought to be just about the strongest man alive.

But then, he already knew that about him.

So, he nods. Because even if he worries, he wants to believe that Carol's right, and so at least for now, that's what he's gonna do.

"He'll be alright."


	5. Talking To Himself

****

Carol leaves not long after. They've all got their jobs to do, and they can't afford to be any more people down than they've got to be. It's bad enough they're down Daryl; the man does the work of three people on his down days, and they'll be hurting for his being out of commission the next couple weeks.

They'll make do, though. They got to, because with all they put on Daryl, least they can do's make sure he gets the time he needs to recover. Rick'll see to that. If it means they all got to pull a little more weight in the meantime to make up for it, well then that's what they'll do.

That's a problem for another time, though. For tonight, Rick's got a job of his own to do, and that's looking after the man on that bunk.

At first, once Carol leaves, Rick doesn't do a whole hell of a lot. Just sits there, mostly still, the cold hard metal of the stool biting into his rear end, eyes sore from strain and sweat, and him not giving a damn about either. He's too focused on the rise and fall of Daryl's bruised chest, enough that his own breathing starts to match it after while.

In a way, Rick reckons he ought to feel special. Not a lot of people got to see Daryl with his defenses down. Even sleeping, Rick knows from experience that he's like a rattlesnake coiled in the grass. Might look peaceful enough, but God forbid somebody make towards him or get too close. Rick knows he's privileged in that Daryl trusts him enough to sleep next to him, but it's still a hell of a thing when he really does let down his defenses, even when it's just because he's too damn tuckered out to keep them up. He likes those night.

This one…not so much.

It's different. He's not just worn out from a hard run or a long day; they're not celebrating the clearing of the last of the tombs or some sort of stroke of good luck. It's not the same as it usually is, and it's not at all what it ought to be.

He's hurt so bad. Just thinking about it makes Rick bury his head in his hands and grit his teeth against the twin storms roiling in his head and chest. He tells himself Carol and Hershel were right, that Daryl'll make it out of this. All those scars he has, Daryl knows how to fight.

But it'll be hard. It'll hurt like hell, and he knows it'll agitate Daryl something fierce being stuck there. Being trapped, not just by them keeping him down, but by his own body being too damn beat up and broken down to do what he wants. What he thinks it needs to do.

And then there's the girl. Rick wants to think it was just the hysterics talking back there, making Daryl act the way he was. For the most, it probably was. But Rick remembers how hard Daryl looked for Sophia, how much it knocked him down when they couldn't find her, or when they did, even if he hadn't seen it then.

"You and little girls," he said into the silence, and he knows how it sounds when he says it, but he reckons there's nobody around to make fun. Just him and Daryl, and he doesn't see Daryl piping up anytime soon.

Anyhow, it's right. This makes two times Daryl's nearly died trying to save a little girl, neither one of them ones he had any responsibility for. Even back then, he was a goddamn hero, just didn't anybody know it yet, not even him. Especially not him.

Rick can't help but think that now, he might be the only one that hasn't figured it out.

"You'd have made a hell of a father."

He's not real sure where the thought comes from, but it comes just the same, and Rick lets it. They've neither of them had any real problem with silence, but now, it isn't really silence. It's the sounds of the sleeping cell block, but more than that, it's the sounds of hitched breaths that still don't seem to come easy for the hunter. Two of his ribs are cracked, Hershel said; breathing might give him trouble for a while yet. It's part of the reason Rick's keeping watch.

That's his story, at least, but he's sticking to it.

"I know if you were awake right now, you'd be rollin' your eyes at me. Probably brushin' me off, or else finding some excuse to be someplace else all of the sudden. But I reckon you got no place better to be, so it looks like you got no place better to be, so it looks like you got no choice but to lie there and let me talk at you."

He lets out a chuckle that he doesn't really feel and scrubs a hand over his beard. "I mean it, though. I know you got problems, after what your old man did to your brother and you. Rickon even if you'd never admit it, you're scared you'll turn out like him." Rick can't even mention him without scowling, and his fingertips find one of the many criss-crosses of scars scattered across Daryl's body, tracing along the raised skin until it disappears under the sling. He's traced each and every one of his scars with fingers and lips and tongue, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he made a promise each time: no-one would ever hurt this man again. Not like that.

The thought of Daryl ever turning into somebody capable of doing that to somebody for no good reason… "That's just stupid. You know it is; I know you do. You just have trouble remembering sometimes is all." Too many years hearing from people – not just his old man or Merle, but probably people he didn't even know; Rick's guilty of thinking it himself – that he was just like his kin, that the rotten apple didn't fall far from the no-good tree.

Rick knows better, now. Knows probably no apple's ever fallen farther, much less found a way to roll itself uphill to higher ground. Not like Daryl has.

"Like as not, you'd put me to shame. Hell, way I see it, you've got just as much claim to Judith as I do. Saved my little girl's life and risked your own to do it." He's half-surprised when a lump rises in his throat, and he has to swallow past it to keep talking. "That's just what you do."

He can't count the number of times Daryl's said that to him or somebody else. Used to shrug off a thank you, like it was just his obligation to do it. Like there was just nothing else to it.

Part of him appreciates it, and he feels the same way. It's what they do. They're family; they look after their own.

But there's a part of him that hates those words more than he can explain, because even if it's what they do, that don't mean it matters less that he did it. Doesn't when they get to take it – or him – for granted.

"You can't keep doin' this," he says after while, voice soft even with nothing much else in the background. "It can't keep just bein' you."

Because that's what it feels like. Even if it's not really how things are, that's what it feels like right then. They all get hurt. This world, that's just the way it is. But it seems like Daryl's the best at protecting himself, right up until it comes to helping somebody else, and then bets are off. Rick's got no doubt in his mind Daryl would die for the right kind of stranger.

Rick reckons that makes him the better man by a landslide.

He's not real fond of where that seems to put him, though. Lying there on that cot, all cut and busted up. Dehydrated, skin burnt so bad from being out there in the sun in some places, it's blistered up. His face looks peaceful enough for the most part, but he's in for a world of hurt when he does come around. Hurt he doesn't deserve. Hurt Rick wishes like hell he could spare him, just this once.

Lord only knows he's seen enough of it for one lifetime.

"He's not the only one."

The voice at the door makes Rick turn his gaze from Daryl towards the source. Not that he needs to; he knows who it is, just from the sound of her voice.

"Michonne." It's not much of a greeting, but it's not a send-off, either.

Seems alright by her, because she steps the rest of the way into the cell. That's it, though. Just enough to clear the curtain, but then she stops. She and Daryl seem to have the same ideas on personal space sharing; they don't really do it.

"You talk to yourself often?" There's a note of teasing to her voice, but there's concern, too. That, though, he doesn't reckon's for him.

He scrubs his face again. It's not 'til he starts blinking again that he realizes how much his eyes hurt, and he's half convinced he's gonna rub the beard right off his face if he keeps on like he is.

"Didn't know I was sayin' that last bit out loud, truth be told," Rick admits, and then as an afterthought, he adds, "I wake you up?"

"Yeah."

Rick reckons he should've seen that coming. Something else she and Daryl have in common: brutal honesty. "Sorry about that."

Michonne just shrugs, then nods towards Daryl. "How is he?"

His hands about halfway to his beard before he catches himself and does something more useful with it, rewetting the washcloth on Daryl's brow. Hershel's got Daryl on some decent antibiotics in the DIY IV he set up for him, but it's just habit to be on the lookout for fever. Not that Rick'd be able to tell real well, not with his skin cooked well done like it is.

Knee jerk is to tell Michonne that Daryl's fine mostly 'cause that's what he's been telling himself the whole time. But he stops himself just before the words leave his lips, because this is Michonne, and she's not asking for that. She's asking for, well, brutal honesty. To get as good as she gives.

So, instead, he runs down the laundry list. "Concussion, couple of cracked ribs, sprained shoulder, few cuts here and there…he got knocked around pretty good."

"Looks like it," Michonne says. "How long's he been asleep."

"Pretty much since we got in."

"Good. He needs it." That seems to be the consensus, Rick thinks. 'Course, he reckons there's a reason for it. "You ask me, he's not the only one. When was the last time you got some shut-eye?"

There are times Rick wishes he surrounded himself with dumber people. Or else just people that weren't so damn perceptive.

"Search me," Rick answers. "You got the time?" He's only half joking. He's really not sure how long it's been. Doesn't much care.

And Rick remembers why he's glad for the people he's got, damnably intuitive as they are, when Michonne doesn't actually try and answer. She just shakes her head. "Just don't run yourself into the ground. Last thing we need's both of you laid up. Especially when it comes time to keep that one on bed rest." She flashes Rick a small smile and nods towards Daryl, still sleeping more or less soundly. "Better you than me."

And it seems like that's all she's got to say, because she ducks back out of the cell, and that's the end of that. It's just Rick again, done with Daryl.

He turns back, scrubs a hand over his beard for the umpteenth time that night, and after a moment turns to the filing cabinet that doubles as his drawers. He needs a distraction; what he's got is a book, and a lot of time to kill.

It's gonna be a long night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are sincerely appreciated. Doesn't take much time, but it makes my day.


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